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John, a staunch liberal and openly gay, felt a pang of disgust. How had he ended up here?

"This is a nightmare," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

John stood motionless for a moment, taking in the room's overpowering display of conservative regalia. Then, a thought struck him. Maybe he could just remove all this stuff. After all, it was his apartment now.

But as soon as he attempted to take down one of the MAGA banners, he realized something strange was happening. The banner refused to budge. It seemed to cling to the wall, as if the very paint was glue.

Frustrated, John tried again, putting more force into the pull. But the result was still the same. The banner seemed stuck in place, mocking him with its stubborn resistance.

He tried another item, attempting to remove a small MAGA badge from the dresser. But just like the banner, the badge defied movement. It felt glued to the surface, no matter how hard he tugged.

John's heart began to race, a mix of confusion and panic setting in. These items were immovable. Why? How was this possible? And more importantly, what was their purpose here?

He sank down onto the bed, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. This had to be a prank. Someone had planted these items here as a cruel joke, or some weird form of psychological experiment. There was no other reasonable explanation. Or... was there?

John scanned the room again, his gaze falling on more Trump-themed items - a red "Make America Great Again" mug, a framed photo of the former president, and even a small American flag with the slogan "Keep America Great" stitched onto it.

Each item seemed to stare back at him, its presence like a slap in the face. As if the room was mocking his own political beliefs and identity.

John felt a wave of anger wash over him, but it was swiftly followed by a pang of fear. Was he trapped here? Stuck in this MAGA-themed prison, with no escape?

He stood up and began pacing, the room feeling smaller with each step. He needed to think, to figure out what the hell was going on.

Frustration grew within John as he attempted to leave the apartment, only to discover the door was impossibly stuck. No matter how much force he applied, it remained sealed, as if it had been fused to the frame.

Panic set in as he tried to use his phone to call for help, but no signal could be found. He was completely cut off from the outside world.

He turned on the TV it was on Fox News. As John frantically flicked through the television channels, he was met with an unsettling sight. Every channel was broadcasting Fox News, without exception.

No matter how many times he clicked the buttons on the remote, the channel stubbornly remained on Fox News. It was as if the TV itself had been calibrated to play only this particular station.

Frustrated and bewildered, John tossed the remote onto the coffee table, the clatter echoing through the room. He couldn't escape the barrage of conservative news and commentary, no matter what he tried.

He plopped onto the couch, a sense of helplessness washing over him. How was this happening? What strange reality had he stumbled into where every electronic item seemed hell-bent on playing Fox News on repeat?

John clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. He loathed Fox News with a passion, every segment feeling like a personal affront to his liberal beliefs. The thought of being forced to watch this drivel on a constant loop was enough to drive him insane.

He considered unplugging the TV entirely, but a sense of unease held him back. What if this was all part of some twisted plan? Unplugging the TV could have unintended consequences. He couldn't risk it.

The hours passed slowly, the TV's constant barrage of conservative news and opinion pieces wearing down John's sanity. The words "Trump" and "MAGA" seemed to be chanted over and over, a maddening chorus that filled the room.

He tried to distract himself with other activities - pacing around the room, flipping through books, even going on his laptop - but nothing could drown out the endless stream of right-wing rhetoric.

By nightfall, John was beginning to waver. He argued with himself internally, trying to hold onto his liberal principles, but the constant exposure to right-wing talking points had begun to chip away at his resolve.

He found himself agreeing with some of the opinions being broadcast, nodding in approval at times, and occasionally even finding himself agreeing with the hosts. This realization terrified him.

As he sat on the couch, John clutched his head, the internal struggle raging within him. He could feel his core beliefs being shaken to the core. Who was he? What did he truly believe?

The TV continued to blast, the host's voice droning on about the virtues of conservative values and the importance of preserving "true American" principles. Each word seemed to sink into his brain, implanting seeds of conservatism that began to take root.

John found himself agreeing more and more with what he was hearing. He started to understand the conservative way of thinking, nodding along to the rhetoric, and even feeling a pang of disappointment when they switched topics.

The liberal ideology that he had always held so dear was slowly fading away, replaced by a growing appreciation for the values being espoused by Fox News.

As the night continued, John could feel his core beliefs crumbling under the onslaught of right-wing propaganda. He was becoming increasingly receptive to the conservative narrative, no longer able to recognize the liberal values he had held for so long.

His mind was changing, slowly but surely. Fox News was rewiring his very identity, molding him into a supporter of the MAGA cause.

As John finally succumbed to exhaustion and dropped off into a fitful sleep, the room around him began to change.

Unseen forces began to take hold, slowly altering his physical form. His features sharpened, his body becoming more toned and muscular. The remnants of his once-liberal appearance faded into memory, replaced by a more rugged, conservative look.

John's hair too changed, falling out leaving him bald as a dark beard begins to grow out of his face.. His skin tone darkened subtly, taking on a more sun-kissed, masculine hue. tattoos form on his neck? thoat, arms. and hands.

As he slept, the physical transformation continued, shaping him into the epitome of a conservative man.

John's wardrobe transformed as well, even in his sleep. The liberal attire he once wore was replaced by more conservative clothing. Jeans became camo pants, his shirt became black with Make Men Men again writen across it, and boots took the place of loafers. Tattoos emerged on his body, each one reflecting a traditional, patriotic image.

He wasn't merely changing; he was being sculpted into a new person entirely.

The physical changes were drastic, but so were the mental ones. As John slept, his mind was being indoctrinated. His liberal beliefs and values were slowly being overwritten by conservative ones. He was dreaming now, visions of a strong America, traditional values, and unyielding patriotism filling his subconscious.

By the time John began to stir, he was a changed man. The physical transformation was complete; he looked every inch the conservative he was now.

His beliefs, too, had undergone a complete metamorphosis. He no longer held onto liberal ideals. In fact, he despised them.

As he sat up, groggy and disoriented, he found himself staring down at the tattoos on his arm, each one a testament to his new persona.

John's eyes flicked up towards a mirror hanging on the wall. The sight of his reflection sent a jolt of surprise through him. He couldn't believe the person staring back at him.

His appearance was that of a stereotypical conservative man. His bald head, the beard, the tattoos, the clothing - everything screamed "MAGA." He looked like a completely different person.

As he stood there, staring at his reflection in disbelief, John struggled to come to terms with his dramatic transformation.

He touched his bald head, feeling the roughness of his shaved skin. He ran his hand over his beard, tracing the thick strands that grew from his once-smooth face. He looked down at his clothing, seeing the MAGA shirt and camo pants that clung to his newly-toned body.

It was a nightmare come true. John tried to deny it, telling himself this was all just a dream. But as he pinched himself and felt the pain, he realized the horrifying truth: this was all too real. He was trapped in a body and mind he no longer recognized.

His heart raced, panic starting to kick in. He had to get out of here, find a way to reverse this nightmare. But when he moved towards the door, he found it still sealed shut.

John froze as a thought suddenly appeared in his mind, seemingly out of nowhere. It was like a strange inner voice, a thought that wasn't his own. It told him to "accept this."

He fought against it at first, resisting the idea of surrendering to the changes. But as the thought echoed in his head, it grew louder and more insistent.

For a long moment, he stood there, wrestling with his inner thoughts. The voice demanded his compliance, and it was becoming harder to resist.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of struggle, John's resistance broke. He couldn't fight the inner command any longer. He had to "accept this."

He took a deep breath, the realization sinking in. This was his reality now. He was no longer the liberal man he once was. He was a conservative, down to his bones.

With a mixture of resignation and acceptance, he stood a little straighter, embracing his new identity.

But as he made the mental shift, John felt another, more subtle change taking place. His emotions began to reshape themselves, shifting towards the conservative values now ingrained in him.

The panic and disbelief that consumed him moments ago faded away, replaced by a sense of conviction. He no longer felt the need to fight against his new identity. In fact, he felt a growing sense of comfort and even satisfaction with it.

The voice in his head grew louder, reinforcing the new emotional landscape within him. The liberal ideals he once held dear were replaced by a staunch conservatism, fueled by inner feelings of patriotism, tradition, and strength.

John began to understand that his transformation wasn't limited to the physical. It was a full-blown mental and emotional restructuring, shaping him into the perfect American conservative.

The more he delved into this new mindset, the more a sense of calmness washed over John. His past as a liberal seemed distant and almost alien.

Now, he had a deep understanding of conservative values and beliefs. He felt a strong connection to America, its heritage, and its future.

Most strikingly, John felt a growing dislike towards liberals and progressive ideals. He had become the very thing he once despised.

John opened the no longer locked door, stepping into the blistering Florida sun, squinting against the bright light. He slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses. As he felt the heat on his skin, his new conservative beliefs began to solidify further.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the humid air. It felt like a homecoming, as if this new persona of his had been waiting to emerge.

With a determined stride, John walked down the street, a sense of comfort and certainty guiding his every step.

As he walked, the city seemed to come to life around him. He passed by people of all ages - some young, some old - but what struck him was the sense of unity that pervaded the air.

He saw American flags flying proudly, MAGA hats on people's heads, and bumper stickers supporting conservative values on cars.

30 days before annual Ashworth Math Competition

First week..

Sitting at his table, Leo was looking over the package that arrived earlier this morning. It came from a scammy site that promised to help him with his problems. It was a small package of powder that was supposed to slow cognitive abilities of whoever took it. The best part? It was undetectable, and by the end of the month, irreversible. Although Leo didn't really think it would work, he was desperate and desperate people do... Whatever it takes to win.

Ren, his roommate was the only obstacle standing between Leo and the Ashworth Scholarship. Full tuition, a stipend, and a guaranteed spot in the graduate program... The only issue was that there could only be one winner. The mathematics department would make their final decision based on the upcoming regional competition, and Leo knew, with the cold certainty, that Ren was better. Not by much. But enough.

Ren had that thing Leo lacked - genuine brilliance. Numbers sang to Ren. He didn't just solve problems; he understood them. Leo had to grind, to bleed, to sacrifice sleep and social life and anything resembling normal human existence just to stay neck and neck with someone who doodled fractals in the margins of his notes for fun.

It wasn't fair.

Thankfully, Leo seemingly found a solution. Even if it would just give Ren headache, he would be happy. Now, the side effects were listed in small print: Increased muscle density, heightened testosterone production, and some other. Unfortunately for a math genius he didn't bother too much to read everything a site had to offer as he was blinded by his wish to win...

Ren was already in the kitchen when Leo emerged from his room, feigning casualness. The dorm's shared space was small but functional: a mini-fridge, a microwave, a single counter that Ren was currently leaning against as he stirred instant noodles in a bowl.

"Morning" Ren said, his voice still raspy with sleep. He was tall, six feet even, with the hunched posture that made him look a bit smaller than he actually was. His dark hair was a mess, his glasses slightly crooked. He wore a threadbare t-shirt with a Star Wars reference "You're up early." Ren added

"Couldn't sleep," Leo said, which was true enough. "I was thinking about that equation we were trying to solve yesterday..."

"Tell me about it." Ren yawned, his jaw cracking. "I've got this theorem stuck in my head. It's like a song on repeat. I was dreaming about it."

Leo's jaw tightened. Of course he was. "Coffee?" He said with a soft smile

"God, yes." Ren said unsuspicious, simply craving a drink right now.

This was the moment. Leo moved to the counter, his back to Ren, and poured two mugs from the pot he'd brewed minutes earlier. The powder was already in his palm, a fine white dust that looked exactly like sugar. He tipped it into Ren's mug, stirred it once, and watched it dissolve completely. 'I hope this works...'

He handed Ren the coffee. Their fingers brushed. Ren smiled, genuinely, warmly, the smile of someone who considered Leo a friend. "Thanks, man. You're a lifesaver."

"Don't mention it," Leo said, dismissing it with his hand, as he watched Ren drink with a smirk crawling up his face...

And to his luck... The first signs came within few days

Leo had spent the day in the library, running through practice problems until his eyes burned. When he returned to the dorm, Ren was at his desk, staring at his laptop with an expression of mild confusion.

"You okay?" Leo asked, hanging his bag on the back of his chair.

"Yeah, just... I don't know. Feel weird." Ren rolled his shoulders "Like, sore. But I didn't work out or anything." He added standing up a bit to stretch.

Leo's pulse quickened... Was it already working? "Maybe you're coming down with something." He said trying to hide a smile as he thought of possibilities

"Maybe." Ren stretched his arms overhead, and his t-shirt rode up, exposing a strip of his stomach. Leo frowned. Was it his imagination, or did Sam's midsection look... tighter? Less soft?

"You been eating differently?" Leo asked, keeping his voice neutral, unsure if the powder could react so fast or was his imagination playing tricks on him...

Ren shrugged. "Just been hungrier than usual. I destroyed a whole pizza at lunch. Didn't even feel full." He laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it. "Weird, right?"

"Nothing weird about it. You were just really hungry probably" Leo said dismissing Ren's concerns.

By end of the week, Ren had stopped wearing shirts in the dorm.

Leo walked in from a late study session to find his roommate sprawled on the couch in nothing but gym shorts, a sheen of sweat on his body despite the air conditioning being cranked to maximum. The change was undeniable now. Sam's chest, which had been flat and undefined a few days ago, now sported the faint outline of pectorals. His shoulders looked broader, straining the straps of his backpack when he bothered to carry one.

"Dude, I don't know what's happening to me," Ren said, not looking away from the TV. He was watching a mixed martial arts fight, something Leo had never seen him do before. "I went for a run this morning. Just felt like it. And I ran like, four miles. Didn't even get tired."

"That's... good?" Leo offered, not wishing to raise suspicion. "Means you are in good shape..."

"It's weird." Ren finally turned to look at him, and Leo felt his stomach drop. There was something different about Ren's face. His jaw seemed squarer, his brow heavier, his eyes somehow... sharper. Did he know something?

"I tried to study today. Sat down with my notes and just... couldn't. The numbers looked like gibberish."

Leo manufactured a concerned expression, still trying to play a role of a supportive best friend. "Stress, probably. We've been pushing hard."

"Yeah." Ren scratched his chest absently, the motion drawing attention to the new definition there. "Maybe." He sniffed his armpit and made a face. "God, I reek. I've been sweating nonstop. It's like my body's on overdrive."

"Shower might help."

"Yeah, maybe in a minute." Ren's attention drifted back to the fight. One fighter had the other in a chokehold, muscles bulging, sweat flying. Ren leaned forward, his eyes bright with an interest "This is actually pretty sick. You ever watch this stuff?"

"No." Leo replied in an instant, not even remotely interested

"You should. It's way better than I thought." Ren flexed his arm unconsciously, watching the bicep rise. "I kinda want to try it. MMA, I mean. Or maybe just hitting the gym. I feel like I've got all this... energy."

Leo sat down at his desk, pretending to open a textbook. His heart was hammering. Were these signs of mental decline... Or just a new interest he picked up...

Second week

Leo was woken by a crash. He bolted upright, disoriented, to find Ren standing in the middle of the room, staring at a broken lamp on the floor.

"What happened?" Leo asked.

"I don't know." Ren's voice was deeper. Noticeably deeper. A rumble rather than the soft tenor he had a week ago. "I reached for it and just... knocked it over. I didn't even touch it hard."

He bent to pick up the pieces, and the seams of his t-shirt gave way with a long, slow tearing sound. The fabric split down the back, exposing a landscape of new muscle - trapezius muscles climbing his neck, lats flaring out to create a V-shape that hadn't existed before, it was... Magnificent.

Ren straightened, holding the ruined shirt in one hand. He stared at it, then at his body, then at Leo.

"What the fuck is happening to me?"

There was fear in his voice. Real, genuine fear. For a moment, Leo felt a stab of something like guilt. This was Ren. His roommate. His friend, even, before the scholarship had poisoned everything between them. But then Leo remembered the Ashworth. The future. The tuition.

"I don't know," he said. "But whatever it is, it's good, no?"

"Maybe." Ren was still looking at his own body, flexing his hands, watching himself in the mirror . "But... I don't know. I do feel kind of... good? Like, really good. Strong. I did push-ups this morning. It felt really nice to be active. You should try it sometime " Ren grinned, and even his grin was different too. Cockier. "Didn't even break a sweat. Although... I'm always kinda sweating now. But you know what I mean, bro"

He tossed the ruined shirt aside and walked to the bathroom, his chest wider, his feet landing heavier. Leo watched him go, noting the way his thighs seemed thicker, the way his boxers were straining across ass that had definitely grown.

The powder wasn't just working. It was exceeding expectations. If things went accordingly to plan... He was sure to get that scholarship~

Third week

Ren had stopped going to classes. It started with sleeping in. Then it was "I'll catch up later." Then it was silence, an unspoken acknowledgment that catching up was no longer possible. The textbooks sat untouched on his desk, gathering dust. His laptop stayed closed. Instead, Ren went to the gym.

He'd joined on a whim, wandering into the campus fitness center after a morning run and deciding to "try some lifts." From the first session, he was hooked. He came back that day with a manic light in his eyes, babbling about "the pump" and "feeling the burn" and a dozen other phrases that sounded like a foreign language coming from his mouth.

"Bro, you gotta come with me," he said, dropping his gym bag on the floor with a heavy thud. "It's insane. I bench-pressed like, two plates. First try. People were staring."

"Two plates?" Leo didn't know what that meant, but it sounded impressive.

"Two-twenty-five." Sam grinned, flexing his arm. The bicep rose like a softball, veins snaking across the surface. In two weeks, he'd gone from a soft-bodied academic to someone who looked like he'd been lifting for years. How was it even possible? What even was in that power... "Coach came up to me after. Asked if I played football in high school. I told him I was on the chess team and he couldn't believe it!" He laughed, a booming sound that filled the room. Leo forced himself to laugh along. "The chess team. Can you imagine this" Ren said pointing at himself "On a chess team. I bet my opponent would give up on sight due fear" Ren shook his head, the motion slower than it used to be.

Leo was looking. It was impossible not to look. Ren had grown. Not just muscle; height. He'd been eye level with Leo two weeks ago... A bit taller. Now Leo had to tilt his head up slightly to meet his eyes. The doorframes were becoming a hazard. And Leo only came up to his chest...

"Speaking of chess," Leo ventured, "we should probably review for the competition. It's in two weeks. The Ashworth is riding on it." He said testing the waters

Ren's face went blank. The word "Ashworth" seemed to register, then fade, like a stone dropped into deep water. "Right. The scholarship thing." He scratched his jaw, which now sported permanent stubble, the hair coming in thicker and darker than before. "Honestly, bro, I don't know if that's my thing anymore."

"What?" Leo's voice came out sharper than intended. He was honestly surprised there for a second "Ren, you've been working toward this for three years." Leo didn't even know why he said that. Perhaps he felt guilty about this whole situation... Did he go to far? Perhaps there was time to reverse the changes after competition.

"Yeah, but..." He struggled, visibly, to form the thought. "Math just doesn't... click anymore, you know? It's like trying to read a language I forgot. When I'm lifting, everything makes sense. The weight goes up, the weight goes down. Simple. Math's all..." He waved a hand vaguely. "Fuzzy."

Fuzzy. The word echoed in Leo's mind. He was definitely getting dumber... Ren's brain was literally being rewired to prioritize physical prowess over intellectual capability.

"Well," Leo said carefully, "if you aren't interested, perhaps you should not come. No use in just taking space among nerds there"

"Yeah, nerds" Ren's smirked "I'm better off not being there, spending time on something more important" He clapped Leo on the shoulder, and the force of it nearly knocked him off his chair. "You're smart, bro. Always thinking. That's why I keep you around."

Keep you around. Not "that's why we're friends." The phrasing was hierarchical now. Dominant and subordinate. Jock and his nerd.

The next evening, Ren brought a girl back to the dorm.

Leo had never seen Ren with a girl before. The old Ren was too shy, too awkward, too lost in his own head to even attempt flirting. Not to mention gay. But this new Ren, the one who walked with his chest puffed out and his shoulders back, apparently had no such difficulties.

Her name was Tiffany, a blonde cheerleader with eyes that never left Ren's body. Leo sat at his desk, trying to study, while he heard sounds coming from Ren's room. He stared at his textbook, the symbols blurring. He could hear them kissing, the wet sounds amplified in the small room. He could smell Ren's cologne, something cheap and musky that he'd bought at the campus store. He could feel the vibration through the floor as Ren shifted his weight...

"God, you're huge," Tiffany whispered.

"All natural, babe."

Leo's stomach turned. his was only a start of the night of loud moans and whimpers had just began... How much stamina did Ren have now?

Fourth week

By the start of week four, the old Ren was dead.

Leo knew this with absolute certainty the moment he woke to find his textbooks dumped on the floor, replaced on his desk by a pair of massive, sweat-stained sneakers. Size sixteen. They reeked of the gym and locker rooms.

"Sorry, bro." Ren's voice rumbled from the living room, completely unapologetic, as Leo went to the kitchen to make breakfast. "Needed somewhere to put 'em. Your desk was empty."

Leo turned. Ren was sprawled on couch that now seemed comically small beneath his frame, wearing nothing but a jockstrap that struggled to contain its contents. His body was a masterpiece of excess… shoulders like boulders, pecs thick that were probably bigger than most women's boobs, abs carved so deep they looked like a washboard. His thighs spread wide, taking up space, legs wide as tree trunks. He was easily 6'5" now, maybe taller, and every inch of him oozed that salty musk…

"My textbooks were there," Leo said quietly.

"Were they?" Ren didn't look up from his phone. "Didn't notice. Hey, you gonna eat that?" He gestured at Leo's untouched breakfast, a bowl of oatmeal.

"I was planning to."

"I'm fucking starving, dude. Be a bro." It wasn't a question.

Leo watched Ren consume his breakfast in four massive bites, oatmeal dripping down his chin. When he finished, he tossed the bowl onto couch, leaving a smear of saliva and oats on the sheets.

"Clean that up, yeah? Thanks." He said without even looking at it, Leo cleaned it, not wanting to argue...

But definitely the worst part was the smell.

Ren's body now produced a constant, pungent musk that saturated everything. The dorm reeked of it. A thick, masculine odor of sweat and hormones and something else, something almost chemical. Leo would come back from class and gag on the air. His clothes absorbed the smell. His bedsheets. His hair. So they both lived in Ren's stench, a constant reminder of who owned the space.

Arguably the only thing worse than smell would be the noises. Ren's libido had become monstrous. When he couldn't find a girl, which was rare, but happened, he would handle himself with a complete lack of shame. The wet, rhythmic sounds filling the dorm at all hours. Leo would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to sleep while listening to moans coming from Ren's room.

"Bro." Ren's voice cut through the darkness one night, rough and commanding. "Bro, come here"

Leo mumbled from his room. "What?"

"You heard me. Get over here."

"I'm trying to sleep."

A low, humorless laugh. "I don't care. I got a problem and my hand's not cutting it tonight. You're gonna help so I can get to bed too. I have practice tomorrow"

"Ren, I don't-"

The lights flicked on. Ren was standing beside Leo's bed, completely naked. And between his legs, jutting upward was something that made Leo's mind go blank with terror. The powder had changed everything. Ren’s dick was enormous, grotesquely, almost comically endowed, thick as Leo's forearm and pulsing with visible need.

"You see this?" Ren gestured at himself, a smirk playing on his lips. "How am I supposed to sleep with this thing asking to be fed? It's so hungry bro.."

Leo's heart stopped. "What?"

Ren casually wrapped a hand around himself, stroking slowly "And now you're gonna help me. Like good roommates do.. Get on your knees."

"Ren, this is insane. I'm not-"

"Did I ask?" The smirk vanished. Ren's face hardened into something cold and cruel. "I said get on your fucking knees bitch"

Leo's body moved before his brain could catch up. Fear was a powerful motivator. He slid off his bed and approached, trembling, his eyes fixed anywhere but the massive thing Ren was stroking.

"Good boy." Ren's voice was a low, approving rumble. "Knew you'd see it my way."

Leo knelt on the cold floor, his mind screaming at him to run, to fight, to do anything but what he was about to do. But his body wouldn't obey. Ren loomed over him like a skyscraper, blocking out the ceiling light, casting him in shadow as all Leo could see when he looked up was a shelf of pecs that blocked his view of Ren's face. Maybe for the best. The smell was overwhelming this close… musk and sweat and something primal that made Leo's head swim.

"Open up," Ren commanded, one massive hand gripping the back of Leo's head. "Don't make this weird. A mouth's a mouth. It's not gay if you don't think about it. And don't you dare use teeth. Else" he said squeezing Leo's back, just enough to send a message. “You already know what'll happen”

But you used to be gay, Leo thought. You had a boyfriend sophomore year. You cried when he transferred schools. But that part of Ren doesn't exist anymore. Ren's existence had been erased and replaced with this towering, aggressive, painfully stupid alpha who viewed Leo as nothing more than a convenient hole.

"Come on, bro. I don't got all night." Ren's grip tightened in Leo's hair, pulling his face forward. "I told you I had practice tomorrow morning, I need to be rested. So you better suck on it like your life depends on it and be honored you are even allowed to touch my cock"

Honored. The word was so absurd Leo almost laughed. Instead, he closed his eyes and let Ren pull him in as he choked on the massive thing, barely fitting it into his mouth while not to start crying.

Afterward, he spent twenty minutes in the bathroom, brushing his teeth until his gums bled, scrubbing his face, trying to erase the taste and the shame. When he emerged, Ren was already asleep, sprawled on his back, still naked, still half hard somehow with his dick still leaking small amounts of cum over his sheets.

Leo barely slept that night. He laid in his bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to Ren's breathing. His jaw ached. His pride was in tatters. And somewhere, in the back of his mind, a small voice whispered: You did this. This is your monster.

The next morning, Leo tried to assert some fragment of normalcy. "The competition is Saturday," he said, his voice hoarse. "I need to prepare. I need quiet."

Ren was doing push-ups on the floor, one-armed, his free hand scrolling through his phone. He didn't look up. "Cool, bro. Have fun with your nerd party."

"It's not a party. It's a mathematics competition. The Ashworth Scholarship is-"

"Yeah, yeah, free money. You said." Ren switched arms, his bicep bulging obscenely. "You know what else is free money? My scholarship. Coach talked to me again. They wanna give me a full ride. Football. Coach says I'm 'a natural talent.'"

Leo's stomach dropped as he repeated "Football scholarship?"

"Hell yeah. Gonna be the star player. Coach say I'm the biggest guy he's ever seen walk onto the field. And I'm still growing." Ren stood up, stretching, and Leo watched in horrified fascination as his lats flared out like wings. "They're gonna pay me to smash people. Best deal. Ever." He grabbed his gym bag and headed for the door, ducking slightly to avoid hitting his head on the frame. Before he left, he paused, looking back at Leo.

"Hey, bro? Clean up a bit while I'm gone. This place smells like a nerd died in here."

The door slammed. Leo stood alone in the silence, surrounded by the wreckage of his plan.

Friday night. Twelve hours until a competition.

Leo was at his desk, reviewing his notes one final time. The equations were solid in his mind. If he could just get through tomorrow, just show up and perform, the Ashworth was his. Ren was no longer a threat. Ren couldn't solve a basic algebra problem anymore. The scholarship was Leo's by default.

"Bro."

Leo didn't turn around. "What?"

"Got a problem."

"You always have a problem. Handle it yourself."

A low chuckle. "Feisty tonight. I like that." The floorboards creaked as Ren approached. "But here's the thing. I already handled myself three times today and it's not enough.” Ren's hands landed on Leo's shoulders, massive and heavy, kneading the muscle with casual ownership. "Tiffany's out of town. Some cheerleading thing. So it's just us tonight, bro. Lucky you."

"I'm studying." Leo replied trying to get Ren off his back

"You're always studying." Ren spun Leo's chair around, forcing eye contact. "Here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna do what you did the other night. Then you're gonna do it again. And again. And again. Because I said so."

"No." The word came out before Leo could stop it. "I have the competition tomorrow. I need to sleep. You can't just-"

"Can't just what?" Ren's voice dropped, the playfulness vanishing. "Can't just what, bro? Say it."

Leo's throat closed. He stared up at the monster he'd created, at the thick neck and the square jaw and the eyes that held no recognition, no friendship, no mercy. This wasn't Ren. This was something else wearing Ren's skin.

"You think you're better than me?" Ren leaned down, his face inches from Leo's. "You think your little math contest matters? It doesn't. You know what matters? This." He flexed his arm, the bicep rising like a mountain. "Power. Strength. The only things that actually count in this world. You're smart, bro, but you're weak. And weak people serve strong people. That's just nature."

"I'm not your servant."

"No." Ren grinned. "You're my roommate. Which is even better. You can't leave. You can't escape. You're stuck here with me, and I'm gonna keep getting bigger and stronger and hornier, and you're gonna keep helping me out. Forever. Sound good?"

Leo didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat was too tight, his eyes burning with tears he refused to shed.

"Good talk." Ren straightened up, his shadow swallowing Leo whole. "Now. Knees. We're gonna be here a while." He said... And truly, by the time they were done, Leo lost count how many times did Ren cum into his mouth, but before passing out, he could swear he saw a sunrise.

Day of the Competition

Leo's alarms didn't go off.

He woke at 10:47 AM, gasping, disoriented, the morning light slicing through the blinds. The competition had started at 9:00 AM sharp. Registration closed at 8:30. He had slept through all of it... slept through his alarm, through his backup alarm, through the third alarm he'd set on his phone.

He grabbed his phone. The alarms were all disabled. Every single one. And there, in the notification history, a message he hadn't sent:

"I can't make it. I'm withdrawing from the competition. Sorry for the late notice."

"No" he breathed. "No, no, no-"

"Morning, bro." Ren said casually with a smirk

Leo whipped around. Ren was sitting on the edge of his bed, already awake, already dressed in gym clothes, a protein shake in his massive hand. He looked... content. Satisfied.

"You," Leo whispered. "You turned off my alarms."

"Did I?" Ren took a long sip of his shake, unbothered. "Must've been an accident. Your phone was making noise while you were asleep. Figured you needed the rest."

"You sent that message."

"Which message?" Ren's grin was a knife. "The one where you quit? Yeah. I helped you out with that. You were really stressed and tired last night after I was done with you. Said you didn't even wanna go. So I made it easy for you."

Leo launched himself off the bed, fury overriding reason. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The Ashworth was my only chance! My entire future was riding on that competition! You've ruined everything!"

He was pounding on Ren's chest with both fists, his blows utterly useless against the wall of muscle. Ren didn't even flinch. He just looked down at Leo with something between amusement and pity.

"You done?" The giant smirked

"I hate you! I hate you so much!" Leo shouted

"Yeah, I know." Ren grabbed Leo's wrists with one hand, effortlessly restraining him. "But here's the thing, bro. You're not going anywhere. You missed your nerd party. You're stuck here. With me." He pulled Leo closer, his breath hot and sour against his face. "So you might as well make yourself useful again, I can't go into gym with a morning wood"

"Let me go." Leo tried resisting, but it was all for nothing.

"After you are done with your job. Oh and don't worry. Coach called. It's official, I got the sports scholarship. Full ride. They're announcing it Monday. I'm gonna be a star, bro. A legend. You should be happy at least one of us gets a scholarship." He released Leo's wrists, shoving him backward onto his own bed. "And if you don't want to end up on the street, I suggest you start taking very good care of me. Every day. Because that's what good roommates do."

Leo sat on the edge of his bed, defeated, hollowed out, as Ren stood and stretched, his massive body blocking out the sun.

"Life's pretty good, you know?" Ren said, almost to himself. "Got the scholarship. Got the girls. Got you to handle the rest. What else could a guy need?" He laughed, taking out his dick in front of Leo's face and smacking him with it. "Open wide roomie" he said showing that monster inside Leo's mouth.

But Leo didn't protest or cry... he was too broken to feel anything as he sucked Ren's dick to the best of his abilities, chocking and gagging on it as Ren pushed into Leo's throat, not caring if the other boy could breathe or not. Everything was going so well... He was so close to getting that scholarship and now... Now he was stuck as Ren's cum dump... Forced to do whatever his roommate wanted if he wished to even get a penny and pay his school year...

The naked form of Chairman Peter Erdos lied slumbering in the bathtub. The sedating solution had had forty minutes to enter his bloodstream and activate its effects. A dozen minutes had passed since his colleagues filled up the tub with water, as indicated by the wrinkled skin of his fingers.

One cannot see anything but tranquillity on his face.

For someone his age, his build was not too shabby. His scalp was bald save for a small patch of soft hairs, and the moisture applied just recently only added to the shininess. In his youth he must have been a fine-looking specimen, and while his current appearance was not at all bad, he would have a hard time fitting in with people from his affluent circle, whose affinity towards questionable procedures and the length they’d go to get their results displayed on their bodies, heads and faces greatly surpassed him. In the surprising case of Erdos, greed was not comorbid with vanity.   

How about a jock with easy confidence and charisma with a natural of self with a jealous roommate who turns him into a needy, self ridiculing, anxiety riddled, scared of the world twink.who needs constant reassurance and support from his boyfriend (doesn't have to be the roommate can a jock like he was before) and help making nearly every important thing.

Really fun idea! And definitely on the longer side. Really wanted to capture this one from start to finish. Hope you enjoy it!

The sauna was packed, but Jack barely noticed. Heat, sweat, easy conversation—it was his element. He leaned back against the wood, arms stretched along the bench, grinning as one of his buddies chirped him about moving day.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack laughed. “Gotta go help my new roommate. Bro sounds like a mess over text, honestly. Figure I’ll get him out more, you know? Fix the vibe a little.”

“Fix the vibe,” one of them echoed. “Classic Jack.”

He shrugged, easy. “What? Dude just needs confidence. Not that hard.”

And he believed that. Always had. People overthought everything: how they looked, how they sounded. Jack didn’t. You showed up, you were yourself, things worked out. Keep it simple.

---------------

Jack knew within about thirty seconds that Liam was… a lot. Not bad. Not even unlikable. Just... loud in a way that filled every gap in a room.

"...and this guy was like, ‘I’m not into twinks,’ and I’m standing there like, okay, cool, did you not see my selfie?"

Jack blinked. "Wait... what’s a twink?"

Liam stopped, turned, and gave him a long, exaggerated once-over. "Oh my god. You’re serious?" A pause, then a dramatic sigh. "Honey… you have, like, sooo much to learn."

Jack laughed, a little unsure, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, man, guess I do."

Liam kept going... about guys, about rejection, about how everything always came down to looks. It was constant. Every story circled back to it. Who was hotter, who got ignored, who didn’t measure up.

"You’re overthinking it," Jack said, leaning back against the counter. "Just relax. Be yourself. People like confidence. Trust me, bro!"

Liam paused, looking almost offended, “Must be nice.”

Jack frowned. “What?”

“Not caring what people think.”

Jack shrugged automatically. “I mean… yeah, I guess. Never really thought about it.”

Liam just hummed, like that answered everything.

---------------

Later, in his room, Jack kicked the door shut behind him and tugged his shirt off, tossing it onto the bed without thinking. He glanced at the mirror, just a quick check, same as always. Except… he didn’t look away. His eyes dropped to his stomach. He’d never really thought about it before, not like this. But now the line of hair down his abs stood out more than it should’ve. Darker. Thicker. It broke up the definition in a way that suddenly felt… off. Messy, almost.

Jack ran a hand over it, frowning slightly. “It’s fine,” he muttered, like he needed to say it out loud.

He straightened, flexed a little. Habit. But instead of the usual quick nod and move on, he hesitated. His chest didn’t pop the same way it did at the gym. Or maybe it did. He couldn’t tell. Still, he shifted his shoulders, trying a different angle. Then again. And then he noticed his necklace. And for the first time, he wondered... Is this tacky? Did it look kinda cheap?

Jack let out a short chuckle. “Chill dude.”

---------------

“Glad you agreed to come along.” Jack smiled as they stepped onto the gym floor. “This is gonna be good for you. Build some confidence, get you feeling better about yourself.”

Liam looked around, already tense. “Or I humiliate myself publicly. Love that for me.”

“You’re fine,” Jack reassured with a grin, “Stick with me.”

They started easy, but Liam struggled. Arms shaking, stopping early, constantly glancing at himself in the mirror.

“God, I look awful,” Liam muttered. “Like, actually tragic.”

“Trust me, no one’s looking,” Jack said automatically, "Here, let me show you the right form..."

He grabbed his usual weight, sat down, pressed... and immediately felt it. Heavy. Wrong. His arms wobbled on the second rep, stalling halfway up. Jack’s jaw tightened as he forced it back into place.

"Okay,” He tried to laugh it off, “Off day.”

But when he reached for the weight again, he hesitated. For the first time, he noticed the guy a few benches over. Then another, across the room. Were they watching? Did that rep look as bad as it felt? And suddenly, he was hyper-aware of how he looked.

"You okay?"

"Ye-yea..." Jack mumbled, "Uh, maybe we should just go."

"Oh no! What about my routine?"

"Your routine?"

"I focus on all the right places," Liam explained, "A bottom needs a juicy ass, babe."

"A bottom?" Jack repeated, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Really? You have so much to learn." Liam teased, patting Jack's arm, "Tops need something nice to squeeze while they rail you senseless."

Jack swallowed hard, face flushing slightly at the blunt talk. He glanced away.

"I guess I never really thought about it that way…"

"Well, now you know," Liam said airily, "So humor me, okay big boy? Besides, you could use a good leg day."

---------------

“This is so unrealistic,” Liam muttered.

Jack sat back into the couch, his ass sore from what had to be the fifth day in a row of Liam's gym routine. Meanwhile, Liam was curled into the other side, phone in hand, only half-watching the screen.

“No one just… ends up together like that. Not without a reason.”

Jack huffed a quiet laugh. “You’d be surprised, bro.”

Liam finally looked at him then. Really looked at him, eyebrow raised.

“Would I?”

Jack shifted slightly. “I mean… yeah. Me and Erica, for example. We’re good. No drama, no weird stuff. Just works.”

“Well duh…” Liam shook his head. “You’re tall. You don’t try too hard, which people love. You’re built…” he paused, tilting his head slightly, “…well, you were more built a few weeks ago, but still.”

“What?” Jack blinked and looked down at himself. “I haven’t changed that much.”

“Someone's defensive!” Liam smirked. The two sat in uneasy silence. “You think she’d still be with you if that changed?”

“That’s not...” Jack shook his head. “No... That’s not how it works.”

“Confident!” Liam smiled. “But there’s always a reason.” A small pause. “And it’s usually something you can lose.”

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the movie neither of them were really watching anymore.

“Dude... you overthink this stuff too much.” Jack said, quieter now.

“Maybe,” Liam shrugged.

Jack looked back at the TV, but his focus slipped almost immediately. His mind snagged on something else… something smaller.

You were more built a few weeks ago.

Erica always said this shirt looked good on him, that she loved the way it highlighted his muscles. But now? The fabric wasn't taut against his pecs. Even the sleeves sat different, the cotton no longer hugging his upper arms. Looser. Unimpressive. He flexed subtly, but the movement barely changed anything. No pull, no stretch. His arms were actually… smaller.

“L-O-L! You’re doing it again.”

Jack’s head snapped up, “Doing what?”

“Inspecting!” Liam giggled, nodding toward him. “You've been checking yourself out more."

“I am not!” The words came out sharper- and higher- than he expected, the pitch jumping suddenly before he could catch it. Jack blinked, clearing his throat quickly. “I’m not... I'm just...”

Liam raised an eyebrow, then gave a small, knowing smile.

"I-I'm going to bed." Jack huffed, "See you tomorrow, bro."

---------------

“You're so jittery!” Liam laughed, already pushing the door open. “Aren't these your friends?”

“Yeah, I know, I just... like... yeah.” Jack trailed off, looking down at himself, pulling at the hem of his shirt.

It fit tighter, which would've made Jack happy if it was his shirt. But he borrowed this one from Liam. It stretched taut across his slim torso. And his pants? Tight as fuck from all those glute workouts. Highlighting his ass in a way that would certainly draw attention.

“Yo!” one of his boys called. “There he is.”

Jack smiled, “Hey~! What’s up!?” His voice came out lighter than he meant it to, a soft lift at the end. He blinked, clearing his throat.

Erica stepped in with a smile. “Hey.”

“Hi babe!”

The kiss was quick... and empty. He blinked slightly as he pulled back.

“You good?” she asked lightly.

“Yeah,” Jack said quickly. “Yeah, I’m good.”

One of the guys gave him a once-over. “New look?”

Jack shrugged quickly. “I mean... yeah. Just like... trying something different, I guess.”

Liam slid in beside him. “He looks good.”

“Yeah,” another friend said. “Just… not what I expected.”

Jack laughed, a little too fast. “Okay, wow, rude,” he said playfully, earning a raised eyebrow from Erica.

They settled in, drinks passed around, Liam made his introduction. But as the conversation picked up, Jack felt... off. Same topics. Same jokes. Jack found himself drifting, only half-listening, his attention snagging on other things... how people looked, who was watching who.

“So you still lifting?” someone asked.

“Yeah,” Jack nodded. “Just, like not as heavy. I’ve been doing more, like… cardio? And legs.”

“Legs?” his friend repeated. “Since when do you care about legs?” A couple laughs.

Jack felt his chest tighten. “I mean... people notice a nice ass. Sorry I don't base my whole personality off how much I can bench.” It came out harsh... defensive even.

“Woah dude, I was just joking.” his friend raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, no, I know, I just... yeah.” A small, breathy laugh slipped out.

He took a quick sip of his drink, eyes flicking around the room like he was trying to reset.

Liam nudged him. “Okay, but that guy? The shirt is… not helping him.”

Jack followed his gaze automatically. “Oh my god, yeah,” he said, a sharper laugh slipping out. “And the hairline? Like... pick a struggle.” He blinked right after, like the words had surprised him.

“Dude,” one of his friends cut in, frowning. “You don’t gotta be a dick.”

Jack’s smile faltered. “I’m just joking...”

“It didn’t sound like a joke.”

“Right... yeah. Sorry,” Jack said again, softer now.

The conversation moved on... without him. Jack frowned, leaning back in his chair. Something about his own voice...his tone... himself...felt off. As he quietly withdrew from his friends, something snagged his attention.

“Hey… that guy over there?” he whispered to Erica. “The one in the black shirt.”

Erica frowned slightly but glanced over. “What about him?”

“He’s been, like… looking at me.” Jack said, a little too quick.

She looked again, then shrugged. “I mean… maybe?”

“No, like... he is.” he said, quieter now. Tight but not entirely anxious.

Erica didn’t answer right away. “Do you... want him to be?”

“I mean...” Jack hesitated, a small, almost self-conscious smile tugging at his mouth, “I don’t not want him to be.”

Erica nodded slowly. “Oh...” Jack could see a sudden sadness in her eyes, “I’m... I need to call Jess real quick.”

“Oh... yeah, okay,” Jack said, blinking.

He watched her walk off, something in his chest tightening. When he looked back at the table, the conversation had already moved on again without him.

---------------

Jack replayed it more than he wanted to admit. Erica across from him, arms folded, voice calm in that way that made it worse.

“I don’t think this is working anymore.”

And him... just sitting there. He wanted to say something. Something important... Instead, there was nothing. Just a strange, hollow feeling, like he’d missed something important without knowing when.

"God you've been moping for days!" Liam whined, "Here, throw this on. We're going out."

---------------

"Where are we going?" Jack whined.

"Shhhh you'll see!"

Jack slowed as they got in line, the music bleeding out onto the street, the way people stood a little closer to each other than he was used to.

"Oh my god!” he let out, a quiet, nervous laugh slipping free. “Is this a gay bar?”

Liam just glanced at him. “You’re so cute when you piece things together.”

"Is this why you wanted me to wear this?” he asked.

His tank top clung to him- tight, thin, riding up just enough to expose his stomach. Flat. Smooth. Too smooth. His eyes lingered there for a second longer than they should have. The treasure trail he was used to... gone. Not trimmed. Not shorter. Just… not there. Jack’s brow knit slightly.

Had it always been like that?

The shorts were worse. Short, tight, hugging high on his thighs in a way that made his ass feel fully, undeniably on display. And it was. It wasn’t subtle. It was the point.

“You look good.”

Jack swallowed, voice softer now, that higher, lighter tone settling naturally. “I feel like… totally exposed.”

“That’s kind of the point.”

Jack huffed a quiet laugh as they made there way inside.

---------------

The dance floor swallowed him quickly. At some point, Liam was gone and Jack found himself hovering at the edge, watching, feeling... out of place.

“You new here?”

Jack turned and gawked at the man behind him. Broad shoulders, solid chest, the kind of grounded confidence Jack used to carry without thinking about it.

"Is it that obvious?” he asked.

The guy smiled. “A little.” He held out his hand, "C'mon."

Jack hesitated briefly, but took the man's hand. He was pulled into the crowd, the flashing lights disorienting as the music pressed in around them. Bodies moved close, the space tightening, and suddenly the guy’s hands were on him- firm at his waist, steady, guiding him into the rhythm. Jack followed without thinking too hard.

Then... a squeeze. Sharp, deliberate.

Jack’s breath caught, his body jolting slightly at the sudden pressure on his ass. He shuddered. Looked up at the man. Lips quivering. The guy’s expression softened into something amused.

“Fuck... you’re so cute.” Jack swallowed, heat rushing to his face... but he didn’t pull away. “Is that okay?” the guy asked, quieter now, giving Jack's ass another squeeze.

“…Yeah,” Jack moaned, softer. “Yeah, it’s okay. More than okay...”

And it was. The man smirked.

“You wanna get out of here?”

Jack didn’t look for Liam.

“I... Yeah.”

---------------

The bedroom was dim, warm. Jack stepped inside and slowed without meaning to, suddenly aware again—of his body, of his clothes, of the way the guy gazed at him. Not casually. Intentionally.

“You okay?” the guy asked, stepping closer, voice lower now.

Jack nodded, a little breathless. “Yeah… I think so.”

“Do you want to?” he asked gently. “We can just hang. We don’t have to do anything.”

Jack hesitated. It had felt good... being wanted like that... being touched like that. But the thought tangled uneasily in his chest. He was straight… wasn’t he?

“…Yeah,” he said finally, quieter. “I do.”

The guy studied him for a second, then nodded. “Okay.”

His tank top came off easily, lifted and gone. He felt... vulnerable. Small compared to the man in front of him.

"Fuck... you're cute."

Jack blushed, turning and unexpectedly catching his reflection in the darkened window. His hair held the light differently, the dark brown he knew softened, warmer now, almost blond at the edges.

Since when...

“It's okay.”

The guy’s hand settled at his waist again, grounding him, thumb brushing lightly against his side. Jack blinked, pulling himself back.

“I...” He swallowed. “I’ve never… done anything with a guy before.”

A small pause. Then a slow, almost amused smile.

“Really?”Jack nodded, his breath catching slightly. “You sure you’re okay with this?” the guy asked again, softer this time.

"Yeah,” Jack said, and meant it.

“Good,” the guy murmured. “You really have no idea what you do to people, do you?”

The words landed warmer than they should have, settling somewhere low in Jack’s chest. Then, the guy pulled his own shirt off. Jack’s eyes followed without thinking

"Wow..." Instinctively, Jack’s hand came up, resting lightly against a muscular pec, feeling the heat, the firmness beneath his palm.

The guy smirked and leaned in...

Jack's first kiss with another man was slow at first. The warmth, the pressure... his hand tightened slightly against the guy’s chest as he responded. He giggled when the kiss broke.

The man leaned in again. Their lips connected. Deeper, more certain. It wasn’t empty. It wasn’t confusing. It felt… good. The guy’s hand slid lightly along his side, resting against his bare skin, and Jack felt his breath catch again... but he didn’t pull away.

He leaned into it instead.

It had been a week since he met Paul that night and so much had changed.

“Do you think my hair looks good?” Jack adjusted it again, fingers careful, practiced. It was fully blond now... soft, styled, falling just right. Not effortless anymore. Deliberate, “I think Paul would like it more like… this.”

Liam smirked.

“Oh! Look at these!” Jack turned his head, “I got these. See?” He angled his ears, the small studs catching the light. Flashy. Begging to be noticed. “They’re not too much, right? I just... thought he might…”

Liam watched, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh!” Jack tugged lightly at the hem of his shorts, glancing back. “Look at my ass in these!” A pause, “I want Paul to notice.”

“Oh he'll notice.” Liam laughed.

“Thank god! Like, last time we only kissed! I didn't even get to taste his cock...” He glanced down at his phone again, thumb hovering. “This time, I want him to fuck my brains out. And so like, I need to look good!"

"Poor Jack."

“Now... what about my top...? Like, does it even look good?” Every word felt like it mattered. Every look. Every reaction.

Liam’s eyes flicked over him slowly- taking in the slimmer frame, the softened edges, the way Jack held himself now. Smaller. Careful. A faint smirk pulled at his lips. Jack didn’t notice. He was already looking back at his phone, rereading Paul’s last message.

---------------

"Woah." Paul grinned as he opened the door, "I uh..."

“Hey,” Jack said softly. His eyes betraying his desperate need. Paul’s eyes moved over him slowly, taking everything in: the blond hair, the earrings, his juicy ass.

“I...” he murmured. “You look... amazing.”

Jack flushed, a small, breathy laugh escaping. “You think? I just... I want to look good for you.” He draped his arms over the man's shoulders and nuzzled into his chest.

"You do."

Jack didn’t hesitate this time. Didn’t think. His hand moved along Paul's growing bulge. He licked his plump lips. He'd been practicing, imagining this... obsessing over making Paul feel good.

"I want to gag on it." Jack breathed, "And then I want you to fuck me. Hard. Please..."

Paul smirked and watched as Jack dropped to his knees easily, naturally. Looking up, waiting, searching Paul’s face for approval. The other man wasted no time- quickly freeing his engorged cock.

And Jack felt it then- the validation, that warm, consuming need to be wanted- settle fully into place. He couldn't wait for his reward.

Constantly annoyed by his androgyny, David stumbles onto a spam ad that leads to his first facial hair and unknowingly condemns his latest overly masc ex to the twinkdom he's leaving behind.

Pretty standard role swap/masc theft! Twinky bottom to hairy top though much of the opposite changes happen off screen. At any rate, hope you enjoy this tale of Twink Theft! -Occam

And so began the same argument that has led to the end of each and every one of David’s previous relationships. Sure, he knows he’s beautiful. Angelic many of his one night stands and observers from afar frequently point out. He’s a model by default and his face card is perfect bait for men to just fall at his feet.

David frequently finds himself with men almost stereotypically masculine, alpha bros and DL hoes are always drawn to his androgyny. But rarely do they ever consider anything but his looks. When the cherubic man can no longer hold back his ire at being considered just a pretty face they fight and then abandon him for some other waifish twink. Leaving him feeling like nothing more than a soft-skinned doll for them to play with and abandon.

Curled up in the passenger seat of his current horndog fling’s car, David looks from underneath his tangle of perfectly coiffed curls as Mattias just stares down the open road. Glancing at the hairy jungles covering the man’s torso and pits, David yearns to feel the scratch of hair against his body. The closest thing he can ever experience to growing it himself.

For half a moment the model believes that perhaps Mattias is reflecting, thinking about their argument. Considering David’s point of view at all. When a hand drifts to adjust a bulge clearly visible in his pants it’s clear there’s only one thing on his mind. And David is certainly not going to let that happen tonight. 

People bully u, Ur forgotten because u basic. So u decided to listen to this new podcast from an alpha chav givin advice

My sister had always been such a sweet girl, that is until she met jack. The first time I met Jack he walked into our house like he owned the place, a cocky swagger and smug superiority about him. He trampled mud all through our house and had his hands in his pants the whole time. From the moment I met him, I hated him. He'd help himself to our food and bring my sister home at all hours of the day. I tried to avoid him best I could until we ended up sat in the living room together. My sister had gone to make something to eat which left me sat next to him. The football was on but I didn't really pay much attention, Jack kept jumping up and cheering.

What did she see in him?

'idiot' I muttered

'you wot' he shouted

Oh shit he heard me

'yknow I'm sick of you lookin down on me just cos I ain't no posh fucker like yous' he grabbed my arm 'yous gonna learn your lesson init'

He threw me to the floor, pinning me down, he slipped off his trainer releasing the pungent stench of testosterone and sweat that was trapped in there. Then he shoved the trainer into my face, forcing me to inhale the thick hot air. I was choking now, the overpowering odor made my eyes water. I started feeling faint, my arms and legs went numb, yet I remained conscious.

That's when I felt it.

First just an itch grew and grew, spreading over my entire body, it felt like a thousands ants crawling over my skin. My whole body convulsed as my bones started snapping. I felt my insides wretch and turn my face crush and reform itself over and over.

I don't know how long I lay there but I eventually passed out. When I woke up I was lay on a couch in a room id never seen before. Next to me was jack, his arm over my shoulder.

'you gud mate?' he asked in his thick Scouse accent

'ye lad, heavy night last night init' I replied

This wasn't my voice, I didn't speak like this. Immediately I felt a rush of thoughts in my brain, new memories, not my own. Memories of drinking and smoking, growing up on the council estate with jack. Yes, my twin brother Jack. We both shared the same chavvy lifestyle and had identical chavvy haircuts. We did everything together. We watched football together, went out drinking, we were insperable.

Despite this my strong will took over I managed to force myself back in control.

'one second lad, I need to take a leak'

'rite lad'

I got up and walked into the bathroom. Then I saw myself in the mirror. I was not who I used to be. I was a stereotype of the worst of youth in England. An awful cheap lookin haircut, obnoxious trainers and I stunk. The smell coming off me was awful.

I didn't realise I was hard until now. I plunged my hand into my travkies and started wanki g my much larger dick. It only took a few seconds until I blew my load, it felt so good and there was so much of it. I cleaned myself up as best I could and grabbed some joggers out the wash basket, they were my brother's but that didn't matter, we shhared everything. I went back and joined him in the living room we watched the match, played some FIFA and got drunk until we passed out.

By the morning I had no memories of my past life. Just my currect memories of hanging out with my brother and his girlfriend. Life was great. I'd skip school, get drunk and hang out with the lads.

What more could I want?

Dear readers,

As the first series, The Church Wants You, was such a success, and I received so many messages from all of you that I decided to continue the story with a sequel.

Thank you for all your support, and I hope you enjoy this next chapter just as much as the first one!

Enjoy!

-------

The spray paint was still wet when Ethan, Jacob, and Andrew finished.

The three boys stood across the street, dressed in their white shirts and dark ties, staring at the black letters covering the barbershop window.

HIPSTERS ARE SINNERS

A man from the Moral Guards office handed Ethan an envelope.

"Good work, Elder Ethan."

Ethan accepted it automatically, while straightening the tie.

Inside were several crisp bills.

His first payment.

No questions asked.

No discussion.

Just another assignment completed.

Jacob grinned.

"Easy money."

Andrew nodded.

"The owner will probably clean it off by tomorrow."

Ethan stared at the window.

For a moment something felt wrong.

The shop looked normal.

Warm lights.

Old-fashioned barber pole.

A small sign advertising haircuts.

Nothing dangerous.

Nothing criminal.

Just a barbershop.

But the feeling vanished as quickly as it came.

The training sessions had become stronger lately.

The thoughts slipped away.

The three boys turned and disappeared into the evening.

---

The next morning Rick arrived at work at 7:15.

Coffee in one hand.

Keys in the other.

Rain drizzled lightly across the quiet street.

He was already tired.

Business had been awful.

For months.

As he approached the shop, something black caught his attention.

Rick stopped.

His stomach sank.

"Oh, come on..."

Across the entire front window, huge black letters dripped downward.

HIPSTERS ARE SINNERS

Rick closed his eyes.

Just stood there.

Silent.

The paint dripped slowly down the glass.

He rubbed his forehead.

Again.

Another incident.

Another warning.

Another message.

He unlocked the door.

Walked inside.

Set down his coffee.

And stared out through the ruined window.

The worst part wasn't the vandalism.

The worst part was that he knew exactly why it happened.

A year ago his barbershop had been thriving.

Young professionals.

College students.

Artists.

Musicians.

Men wanting fades.

Beard shaping.

Modern styles.

Hair coloring.

Undercuts.

Everything.

Back then people wanted something different.

Now?

Now people wanted to look exactly the same.

Every month more customers disappeared.

Every month more men showed up looking nearly identical.

White shirts.

Buttoned collars.

Dark trousers.

Neatly combed hair.

No beard.

No individuality.

No experiments.

No personality.

Traditional cuts only.

Conservative cuts.

Approved cuts.

Even the language had changed.

People no longer asked for modern styles.

They asked for "respectable styles."

They asked for "community standards."

They asked for "appropriate appearances."

And lately...

The ties had appeared.

Everywhere.

Rick hated noticing it.

But he couldn't stop noticing it.

The town was changing.

Fast.

---

Around noon a young customer entered.

Maybe nineteen.

Maybe twenty.

White shirt.

Dark tie.

Of course.

"Morning," Rick said.

"Morning."

The boy sat down.

"Just clean it up on the sides."

Rick nodded.

The haircut began.

Clippers buzzed softly.

For a while neither spoke.

Then—

Everything went dark.

The clippers stopped.

The lights died.

The music vanished.

Silence.

Rick frowned.

"What the hell?"

The customer looked up.

The entire shop had lost power.

What was weirder was the fact that other stores nearby was functioning normally.

The young customer stood.

"Again?"

"Again?" Rick asked.

The boy shrugged.

"Happens a lot lately."

Rick stared.

"A lot?"

The customer nodded.

"Have you paid your bills?"

Rick laughed.

"Of course... And it's not your business to ask such things."

The boy didn't answer.

A few minutes later several customers arrived.

Saw the darkness.

Complained.

Left.

One by one.

Rick watched them go.

There went today's income.

There went tomorrow's income.

There went rent money.

Again.

---

By late afternoon the electricity still hadn't returned.

Rick sat alone in the dark shop.

His phone showed no internet.

No messaging.

Nothing.

Again.

He sighed.

Peter would know what was happening.

Peter always knew what was happening.

Rick opened their chat.

Nothing sent.

No signal.

No network.

Nothing.

Perfect.

---

By evening Rick locked the shop.

The graffiti was partially cleaned.

The power was still gone.

The internet was still dead.

The street felt strangely quiet.

Too quiet.

Groups of young men in white shirts walked through downtown.

Talking softly.

Smiling.

Organized.

Purposeful.

Like they belonged somewhere.

Rick looked away.

He hated feeling jealous.

He just walked home.

---

Their apartment was warm when he entered.

Peter stood in the kitchen.

Holding papers.

Lots of papers.

Bills.

Mortgage statements.

Utility notices.

Bank letters.

Peter didn't even look up.

"Bad day?"

Rick laughed.

"Which part?"

Peter finally met his eyes.

That expression immediately worried Rick.

"What?"

Peter handed him a sheet.

Rick looked.

His smile vanished.

Electricity costs.

Up again.

Way up.

"What the hell?"

Peter handed him another.

Mortgage increase.

Then another.

And another.

Rick stared at the growing pile.

"Tell me these aren't real. They keep increasing our bills!"

"They're real."

Silence.

The refrigerator hummed softly.

Neither spoke.

Finally Rick sat down.

"We can manage."

Peter didn't answer.

"We've managed before."

Still nothing.

"Peter."

Peter exhaled slowly.

"No."

The answer came quietly.

"No, Rick."

Rick looked up.

"What do you mean no?"

Peter sat across from him.

"We can't."

The words hung heavily in the room.

"We can't keep the apartment."

Rick froze.

"We can't keep the shop."

Silence.

"We can't keep both."

---

Rick felt anger rising.

"No."

Peter nodded sadly.

"I ran the numbers three times."

"No."

"We don't have enough."

"We'll figure something out."

Peter laughed bitterly.

"With what?"

Neither answered.

The room suddenly felt much smaller.

They had dreamed about this apartment.

For years.

Saving.

Working.

Planning.

Building a future.

And now it was slipping away.

Not because they failed.

Because everything around them was changing.

---

Peter finally spoke.

"There is one possibility."

Rick immediately hated those words.

"What possibility?"

Peter hesitated.

Then said it.

"The Family Program."

Rick stared.

Then laughed.

Then realized Peter wasn't joking.

"Oh, absolutely not."

"Rick—"

"No."

"Just listen."

"No."

Peter rubbed his temples.

"It would lower taxes."

"No."

"It would reduce mortgage rates."

"No."

"It would reduce utilities."

"No."

Peter's patience finally cracked.

"Then tell me your plan!"

The room fell silent.

Because Rick didn't have one.

---

Peter stood.

Started pacing.

"They get discounts."

"I know."

"They get priority rates."

"I know."

"They get grants."

"I know."

"They get everything."

"I know."

"So what do we do?"

Rick stared at the floor.

Peter lowered his voice.

"What if we just..."

He hesitated.

"...blend in?"

Rick looked up.

"What?"

"It's clothes."

"Peter."

"It's literally clothes."

"Peter."

"White shirts. Ties. A few forms."

Rick couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"You've lost your mind."

Peter laughed sadly.

"Maybe."

He looked around the apartment.

The apartment they loved.

The apartment they had spent years saving for.

Then he looked toward the window.

Toward the dark town outside.

"I just don't want to lose everything."

Rick had no answer.

Because for the first time...

Neither did he.

The bills remained spread across the kitchen counter between them.

Like a warning.

Dear readers,

As the first series, The Church Wants You, was such a success, and I received so many messages from all of you that I decided to continue the story with a sequel.

Thank you for all your support, and I hope you enjoy this next chapter just as much as the first one!

Enjoy!

-------

The spray paint was still wet when Ethan, Jacob, and Andrew finished.

The three boys stood across the street, dressed in their white shirts and dark ties, staring at the black letters covering the barbershop window.

HIPSTERS ARE SINNERS

A man from the Moral Guards office handed Ethan an envelope.

"Good work, Elder Ethan."

Ethan accepted it automatically, while straightening the tie.

Inside were several crisp bills.

His first payment.

No questions asked.

No discussion.

Just another assignment completed.

Jacob grinned.

"Easy money."

Andrew nodded.

"The owner will probably clean it off by tomorrow."

Ethan stared at the window.

For a moment something felt wrong.

The shop looked normal.

Warm lights.

Old-fashioned barber pole.

A small sign advertising haircuts.

Nothing dangerous.

Nothing criminal.

Just a barbershop.

But the feeling vanished as quickly as it came.

The training sessions had become stronger lately.

The thoughts slipped away.

The three boys turned and disappeared into the evening.

---

The next morning Rick arrived at work at 7:15.

Coffee in one hand.

Keys in the other.

Rain drizzled lightly across the quiet street.

He was already tired.

Business had been awful.

For months.

As he approached the shop, something black caught his attention.

Rick stopped.

His stomach sank.

"Oh, come on..."

Across the entire front window, huge black letters dripped downward.

HIPSTERS ARE SINNERS

Rick closed his eyes.

Just stood there.

Silent.

The paint dripped slowly down the glass.

He rubbed his forehead.

Again.

Another incident.

Another warning.

Another message.

He unlocked the door.

Walked inside.

Set down his coffee.

And stared out through the ruined window.

The worst part wasn't the vandalism.

The worst part was that he knew exactly why it happened.

A year ago his barbershop had been thriving.

Young professionals.

College students.

Artists.

Musicians.

Men wanting fades.

Beard shaping.

Modern styles.

Hair coloring.

Undercuts.

Everything.

Back then people wanted something different.

Now?

Now people wanted to look exactly the same.

Every month more customers disappeared.

Every month more men showed up looking nearly identical.

White shirts.

Buttoned collars.

Dark trousers.

Neatly combed hair.

No beard.

No individuality.

No experiments.

No personality.

Traditional cuts only.

Conservative cuts.

Approved cuts.

Even the language had changed.

People no longer asked for modern styles.

They asked for "respectable styles."

They asked for "community standards."

They asked for "appropriate appearances."

And lately...

The ties had appeared.

Everywhere.

Rick hated noticing it.

But he couldn't stop noticing it.

The town was changing.

Fast.

---

Around noon a young customer entered.

Maybe nineteen.

Maybe twenty.

White shirt.

Dark tie.

Of course.

"Morning," Rick said.

"Morning."

The boy sat down.

"Just clean it up on the sides."

Rick nodded.

The haircut began.

Clippers buzzed softly.

For a while neither spoke.

Then—

Everything went dark.

The clippers stopped.

The lights died.

The music vanished.

Silence.

Rick frowned.

"What the hell?"

The customer looked up.

The entire shop had lost power.

What was weirder was the fact that other stores nearby was functioning normally.

The young customer stood.

"Again?"

"Again?" Rick asked.

The boy shrugged.

"Happens a lot lately."

Rick stared.

"A lot?"

The customer nodded.

"Have you paid your bills?"

Rick laughed.

"Of course... And it's not your business to ask such things."

The boy didn't answer.

A few minutes later several customers arrived.

Saw the darkness.

Complained.

Left.

One by one.

Rick watched them go.

There went today's income.

There went tomorrow's income.

There went rent money.

Again.

---

By late afternoon the electricity still hadn't returned.

Rick sat alone in the dark shop.

His phone showed no internet.

No messaging.

Nothing.

Again.

He sighed.

Peter would know what was happening.

Peter always knew what was happening.

Rick opened their chat.

Nothing sent.

No signal.

No network.

Nothing.

Perfect.

---

By evening Rick locked the shop.

The graffiti was partially cleaned.

The power was still gone.

The internet was still dead.

The street felt strangely quiet.

Too quiet.

Groups of young men in white shirts walked through downtown.

Talking softly.

Smiling.

Organized.

Purposeful.

Like they belonged somewhere.

Rick looked away.

He hated feeling jealous.

He just walked home.

---

Their apartment was warm when he entered.

Peter stood in the kitchen.

Holding papers.

Lots of papers.

Bills.

Mortgage statements.

Utility notices.

Bank letters.

Peter didn't even look up.

"Bad day?"

Rick laughed.

"Which part?"

Peter finally met his eyes.

That expression immediately worried Rick.

"What?"

Peter handed him a sheet.

Rick looked.

His smile vanished.

Electricity costs.

Up again.

Way up.

"What the hell?"

Peter handed him another.

Mortgage increase.

Then another.

And another.

Rick stared at the growing pile.

"Tell me these aren't real. They keep increasing our bills!"

"They're real."

Silence.

The refrigerator hummed softly.

Neither spoke.

Finally Rick sat down.

"We can manage."

Peter didn't answer.

"We've managed before."

Still nothing.

"Peter."

Peter exhaled slowly.

"No."

The answer came quietly.

"No, Rick."

Rick looked up.

"What do you mean no?"

Peter sat across from him.

"We can't."

The words hung heavily in the room.

"We can't keep the apartment."

Rick froze.

"We can't keep the shop."

Silence.

"We can't keep both."

---

Rick felt anger rising.

"No."

Peter nodded sadly.

"I ran the numbers three times."

"No."

"We don't have enough."

"We'll figure something out."

Peter laughed bitterly.

"With what?"

Neither answered.

The room suddenly felt much smaller.

They had dreamed about this apartment.

For years.

Saving.

Working.

Planning.

Building a future.

And now it was slipping away.

Not because they failed.

Because everything around them was changing.

---

Peter finally spoke.

"There is one possibility."

Rick immediately hated those words.

"What possibility?"

Peter hesitated.

Then said it.

"The Family Program."

Rick stared.

Then laughed.

Then realized Peter wasn't joking.

"Oh, absolutely not."

"Rick—"

"No."

"Just listen."

"No."

Peter rubbed his temples.

"It would lower taxes."

"No."

"It would reduce mortgage rates."

"No."

"It would reduce utilities."

"No."

Peter's patience finally cracked.

"Then tell me your plan!"

The room fell silent.

Because Rick didn't have one.

---

Peter stood.

Started pacing.

"They get discounts."

"I know."

"They get priority rates."

"I know."

"They get grants."

"I know."

"They get everything."

"I know."

"So what do we do?"

Rick stared at the floor.

Peter lowered his voice.

"What if we just..."

He hesitated.

"...blend in?"

Rick looked up.

"What?"

"It's clothes."

"Peter."

"It's literally clothes."

"Peter."

"White shirts. Ties. A few forms."

Rick couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"You've lost your mind."

Peter laughed sadly.

"Maybe."

He looked around the apartment.

The apartment they loved.

The apartment they had spent years saving for.

Then he looked toward the window.

Toward the dark town outside.

"I just don't want to lose everything."

Rick had no answer.

Because for the first time...

Neither did he.

The bills remained spread across the kitchen counter between them.

Like a warning.

Peter stood with his arms crossed beside the kitchen counter.

"Rick, listen to yourself."

"I'm listening."

"No, you're not."

Rick rubbed his face.

"We're talking about pretending to be someone we're not."

Peter pointed toward the pile of bills.

"And they're talking about taking our apartment."

Silence.

The words landed harder than Rick wanted to admit.

Peter softened his voice.

"I'm not asking you to join anything."

"I'm not joining anything."

"I'm not asking you to believe anything."

"I'm not believing anything."

"I'm asking you to survive."

Rick stared at him.

Peter stepped closer.

"One year."

Rick shook his head.

"Peter—"

"One year. Council elections are next spring."

"You don't know that."

"Nobody knows anything."

Peter laughed bitterly.

"But everybody says the same thing. The old council is losing support. People are angry. Utility prices. Mortgage increases. Store closures."

Rick looked away.

Peter continued.

"If they're gone next year, everything changes."

"And if it doesn't?"

Peter didn't answer.

That worried Rick more than anything.

---

A long silence followed.

Finally Peter sighed.

"Come on."

"What?"

Peter pointed at his hair.

"If we're doing this, let's do it."

Rick blinked.

"What?"

Peter pointed again.

"Look at me."

Rick looked.

Dark curls.

Longer top.

Messy texture.

Modern style.

The exact opposite of what most young men in town now wore.

Peter smirked nervously.

"Give me one of those stupid haircuts."

Rick actually laughed.

For the first time all evening.

"Oh, absolutely not."

"Rick."

"No."

"Rick."

"They all look identical."

"Exactly."

Rick laughed again.

Peter spread his arms.

"Then make me identical."

---

Twenty minutes later they had moved into the living room.

Rick had dragged home some equipment from the shop months earlier.

Clippers.

Comb.

Cape.

Scissors.

Peter sat in a wooden chair.

Looking deeply uncomfortable.

A black barber cape covered him from neck to feet.

Rick snapped the cape closed.

"You still have time to back out."

Peter stared ahead.

"You still have time to stop being dramatic."

Rick switched on the clippers.

The familiar buzzing filled the apartment.

For a moment everything felt normal.

Like before the bills.

Before the graffiti.

Before the town started changing.

---

Peter swallowed.

"I hate this already."

"I haven't even started."

"I know."

Rick grinned.

"Good."

The clippers touched Peter's neck.

Hair immediately began falling.

Dark curls slid down the cape.

Peter visibly winced.

"Oh God."

Rick chuckled.

"It's hair."

"It's my hair."

"You sound eighty years old."

---

Slowly Rick worked around the back of Peter's head.

The longer curls disappeared.

The sides grew shorter.

Cleaner.

Neater.

More structured.

Every few minutes Peter would glance toward the dark television screen trying to catch a reflection.

Rick pushed his head gently forward.

"Stop moving."

"I want to see."

"You'll survive."

---

More hair fell.

Rick blended the sides carefully.

His hands moved automatically.

Years of experience.

Years of fades.

Years of modern styles.

Ironically, lately he had been cutting dozens of nearly identical conservative hairstyles.

He knew exactly what Peter wanted.

That somehow annoyed him even more.

---

Peter touched the cape.

"How bad is it?"

Rick smirked.

"Very."

Peter groaned.

"I knew it."

"I'm kidding."

"You're lying."

"I'm definitely lying."

Peter rolled his eyes.

---

The clippers buzzed higher.

Rick worked the fade.

Short near the ears.

Longer toward the crown.

Cleaner than Peter had ever worn it.

Eventually Rick stepped back.

The transformation was already obvious.

Peter looked younger.

Sharper.

More conventional.

Less rebellious.

Less artistic.

Less like Peter.

Rick hated how effective it looked.

---

"Mirror."

"No."

"Rick."

"No."

"Mirror."

"Sit still."

Peter groaned dramatically.

---

Rick sprayed water through the top.

The curls flattened.

A comb moved through them.

Back.

To the side.

Back.

To the side.

Creating a neat side part.

The kind Rick saw every day now.

The kind Ethan and the others wore.

The kind that seemed to be taking over the town.

---

Peter stared at the floor.

"This feels weird."

"Because it is weird."

"You know what's really weird?"

"What?"

Peter laughed.

"The haircut actually looks good."

Rick sighed.

"I know."

That answer made them both laugh.

---

The dryer came next.

Warm air blew through Peter's hair.

Rick shaped the part carefully.

Every strand placed deliberately.

Every line clean.

Every edge neat.

When he finally switched off the dryer, silence returned.

Rick handed over a mirror.

Peter looked.

And froze.

For several seconds he simply stared.

Turning his head.

Looking left.

Then right.

Then left again.

---

"Well?"

Rick asked.

Peter swallowed.

"I look like one of them."

"You do."

"I really look like one of them."

"You really do."

Peter touched the side part.

The short faded sides.

The smooth top.

The precise shape.

The clean appearance.

Everything.

---

Neither spoke for a moment.

Then Peter stood.

"One more thing."

"Oh no."

Peter pointed toward the bedroom.

"The shirt."

Rick groaned.

"The shirt."

---

Peter disappeared into their bedroom.

A few minutes later closet doors opened.

Hangers rattled.

Drawers slid.

Rick sat on the couch wondering how his life had somehow reached this point.

---

Then Peter emerged.

Holding a white dress shirt.

The only one he owned.

Along with black suit trousers.

He looked at them uncertainly.

Like they belonged to someone else.

Maybe they did.

---

He removed his polo shirt.

Tossed it onto the bed.

Then stepped into the black trousers.

The fabric felt different.

More formal.

Less comfortable.

More restrictive.

He fastened the waistband.

Pulled them into place.

Smoothed the front.

Adjusted the belt.

Then picked up the white shirt.

For several seconds he simply held it.

Staring.

Thinking.

Doubting.

---

Rick watched from the doorway.

"You don't have to do this."

Peter looked over.

"Neither do you."

Then he slid his arms into the sleeves.

The cool cotton settled over his shoulders.

The cuffs fell neatly into place.

One button.

Then another.

Then another.

Slowly working upward.

The shirt transformed him almost as much as the haircut had.

The white fabric looked crisp.

Orderly.

Intentional.

---

When he reached the collar, Peter hesitated.

His fingers paused.

Rick noticed immediately.

"Too much?"

Peter laughed nervously.

"Maybe."

---

Finally he fastened another button.

Then another.

Until only the top one stays unbuttoned.

The collar framed the new haircut perfectly.

Exactly the way Rick had seen hundreds of times lately.

---

Peter stepped in front of the mirror.

The room grew quiet.

The man staring back barely looked like the same person who had sat down for a haircut forty minutes earlier.

The messy curls were gone.

The casual style was gone.

The relaxed look was gone.

Everything looked sharper.

More formal.

More respectable.

More acceptable.

At least according to the town.

---

Rick stared.

Peter stared.

Neither knew what to say.

Finally Peter looked over.

"Well?"

Rick sighed.

"You look ridiculous."

Peter laughed.

Then looked back at the mirror.

A small smile appeared.

"You know what's annoying?"

"What?"

"It kind of works."

Rick groaned.

"Don't say that."

Peter laughed even harder.

Peter expected resistance.

Maybe questions.

Maybe another form.

Maybe a waiting list.

Instead, the man behind the reception desk barely looked at the application before frowning.

"Household support program?"

"Yes."

The receptionist nodded.

Then his eyes moved upward.

To Peter's collar.

His expression changed immediately.

"You don't have a tie."

Peter blinked.

"What?"

"A tie."

The man pointed at his neck.

Peter looked down at himself.

White shirt.

Black trousers.

Polished shoes.

Fresh haircut.

He had spent almost an hour preparing.

"I wasn't aware that mattered."

"It does."

Peter stared.

The receptionist turned the monitor slightly.

A list appeared on the screen.

Dozens of requirements.

Dress code included.

Tie.

Formal appearance.

Community standards.

Religious values.

Peter felt a knot forming in his stomach.

"You've got to be kidding."

The receptionist didn't laugh.

A second man appeared from a nearby office.

Older.

Grey suit.

Perfect smile.

The kind that never reached the eyes.

"Is there a problem?"

The receptionist handed him the application.

The older man read it.

Then looked at Peter.

Longer than necessary.

Studying him.

Judging him.

"You live alone?"

"No."

"With whom?"

Peter hesitated.

"Rick."

The older man's eyebrows lifted.

"Brother?"

"No."

"Cousin?"

"No."

The silence stretched.

The older man slowly closed the folder.

"I see."

Peter already knew where this was going.

"Unfortunately," the man said carefully, "this program supports households that align with the community's moral and religious framework."

Peter stared.

"What does that even mean?"

The man gave him a practiced smile.

"It means certain living arrangements are not eligible."

Peter's jaw tightened.

"You have records on everyone, don't you?"

The man didn't answer.

Which was answer enough.

As Peter left, he glanced back once.

Both men were watching him.

The same way security guards watched shoplifters.

The same way suspicious neighbors watched unfamiliar cars.

The same way people watched people who no longer belonged.

The walk home felt longer than usual.

His new shoes hurt.

The haircut suddenly felt ridiculous.

He pulled at his sleeves the entire way home.

When he opened the apartment door he immediately knew something was wrong.

The living room was dark.

The kitchen was dark.

No music.

No television.

No sound.

Rick sat on the couch.

Motionless.

Elbows on knees.

Hands clasped.

The room lit only by a candle.

Peter's stomach dropped.

"What happened?"

Rick looked up.

His face said everything.

"No electricity."

"What?"

"They cut power to the entire commercial block."

Peter froze.

"What do you mean cut power?"

Rick laughed bitterly.

"The council says businesses have to be recertified."

Peter slowly sat beside him.

"And until then?"

Rick shrugged.

"No electricity."

"No customers."

"No income."

For a moment neither spoke.

The apartment felt too quiet.

Too small.

Too warm.

Peter finally placed the rejected application on the coffee table.

Rick picked it up.

Read.

Then read again.

His face darkened.

"They actually wrote it."

Peter nodded.

Rick pointed to the paragraph.

"Households inconsistent with community values."

"Yep."

Rick shook his head.

"Unbelievable."

Soon papers covered the entire coffee table.

Pamphlets.

Program rules.

Council notices.

Utility regulations.

Housing assistance information.

Everything they could find.

For nearly an hour they searched.

Neither liking what they found.

Every program.

Every subsidy.

Every discount.

Every benefit.

The same language.

Community standards.

Traditional family values.

Approved households.

Rick dropped another brochure.

"That's it."

Peter looked up.

"What?"

"We're screwed."

Peter rubbed his forehead.

"No."

Rick laughed.

"No?"

"No."

Rick gestured toward the mountain of paperwork.

"What exactly do you call this?"

Peter leaned back.

Thinking.

Calculating.

Looking for any opening.

Any weakness.

Any loophole.

Then slowly he sat upright.

"I have an idea."

Rick immediately hated those words.

"What idea?"

Peter looked directly at him.

"We play along."

Rick stared.

"No."

"Hear me out."

"No."

Peter pointed toward the stack of papers.

"Next year."

"What about next year?"

"Council elections."

Rick rolled his eyes.

Peter continued.

"Everybody hates them."

"Not everybody."

"Enough people."

"That's not a plan."

"It's twelve months."

Rick shook his head.

"Twelve months pretending to be somebody else?"

"Twelve months paying rent."

Rick didn't answer.

The silence lingered.

Because both knew Peter had a point.

"What happens if you're wrong?"

Peter looked down.

"Then we'll figure something else out."

"And if they stay?"

"We'll deal with it then."

Rick stared at the paperwork.

The unpaid bills.

The utility notices.

The mortgage statement.

The dark apartment.

No electricity at the shop.

No customers.

No money.

Finally he sighed.

"What exactly are you suggesting?"

Peter smiled slightly and hugged him.

"The shirt."

Rick groaned immediately.

"The shirt."

"The shirt."

Peter stood and disappeared into the bedroom.

A moment later hangers rattled inside the wardrobe.

Rick followed.

Peter stood in front of the closet.

The white shirt hanging neatly among darker clothes.

Pressed.

Clean.

Almost ceremonial.

Peter removed it carefully.

Holding it up.

Looking at Rick.

Then at the shirt.

Then back at Rick.

"Oh absolutely not."

Peter laughed.

"Oh absolutely yes. Come on, I myself feel like a bad waiter dressed like this. It's not comfy okay? I would just put on my favourite hoodie if it was on me. But can as well sleep under the bridge in that hoodie..."

Rick folded his arms.

"I look like a tattooed Viking."

"You look like a barber."

"I am a barber."

"Exactly."

Peter stepped closer.

Holding the shirt out.

"Try it."

Rick stared at it.

Like it was radioactive.

"You first got me to cut your hair."

Peter grinned.

"And now it's your turn."

Rick sighed heavily.

The kind of sigh that came from the soul.

"Fine."

Peter's smile widened.

"Seriously?"

"Don't make me regret this."

Peter handed him the shirt.

The fabric contrasted sharply against Rick's tattooed hands.

White.

Clean.

Conservative.

Everything Rick normally avoided.

For several seconds he simply looked at it.

Then shook his head.

"This is insane."

Peter smiled.

"Maybe."

Rick glanced toward the stack of papers visible from the bedroom.

The bills.

The notices.

The warnings.

The reality of their situation.

Finally he muttered:

"What can happen?"

Peter answered quietly.

"Exactly."

And for the first time that evening, both men began preparing not because they believed in the system—but because they were running out of ways to survive it.

"Last time I was wearing a shirt was on my sister's wedding two years ago... Come, help me put it on."